Angels of the Mojave
by Genoan Romanticism
Summary: In the NCR Army, the brave officers who go around making rash decisions get one of two things: a bullet - or a medal. While Captain Randal "Pip" Paez's superiors haven't decided to give him any medals yet, he's optimistic. Nobody's shot him either, despite his seeming best efforts to put himself in harms way. [F:NV - HEAVY CANON DIVERGENCE]


It was somewhere around 5 AM, the Major guessed. And he had to guess because some part of him was too worried to pull back the sleeve of his tunic and check his watch. A paranoia that the moonless sky would still cast enough light to reflect off the glass face for a passing sentry on the road - the same paranoia that has his lips pulled in a tight to try and hide the whites of his teeth.

One of the first things any good soldier learned was how quickly your other senses sharpened in the darkness. When you were deprived of your eyes, suddenly the desert sands shifting underfoot and the subtle metal-on-metal sound of a rifle became far more pronounced. And of course, your eyes were more sensitive to light - a reflection of glass or a lighter sparking in the distance.

A shuffling in the sand beside him and as the Major tore his eyes away from the road he saw another dark figure crouching next to him - his Platoon Sergeant, still hidden by the dune. They held out a gloved hand in which there was a single piece of paper - because when they were this far behind enemy lines even talking could deliver a quick, and likely violent, death.

He could just make out the letters: 'point says point is quiet'.

He looked over the dune once more at the road ahead. Long, flat black-top. The sands of the desert dipped and rose into dunes all the way until five meters from the road when they formed a steep ditch that a man could crouch in and just barely poke over the top. Another fifty meters of sand and dunes beyond that and the first houses of the city start.

At the roadside was a pair of guard towers with brilliantly white lights around them pointed only a few degrees out from where they were mounted on the railings at the top. They stood opposite and across from each other by about fifty meters and while the lights did a fantastic job of lighting the immediate area they left a thin strip of darkness between them.

At the base of each one stood another guard and a simple wooden gate arm. He couldn't make out a great many details save that one leaned against the counter-weight of their gate arm with a hand cupped in front of their face. Presumably they were trying to light a cigarette.

The Major looked to Platoon Sergeant and made a motion towards the road.

The Platoon Sergeant nodded and slipped back down the dune towards a crouched line of other figures in waiting. A line of gestures and shoulder-taps passed along and then they moved.

The sentries at the bases of the towers were turned away: so sure they were secure at their backs.

In twos and threes, dark figures would move down to the ditch beside the road, peek up, quickly glance to make sure the sentries on the road and in the towers still had their backs turned, and then as quiet as mice they would slip up onto the blacktop and rush across to the other side. After a few moments of silence from the guards would pass, another group would go.

About midway through the procession, the Platoon Sergeant was among those crossing.

When he was sure that the others were safely in the darkness at the other side, the Major joined the last three men to cross, and in the same silence as all those before them they crossed unnoticed. A quick head-count was made and once everyone was accounted for they moved away from the road and to the city itself.

It was a short stretch of buildings but they managed to move like something akin to ghosts - spread out among the yards and in the relative darkness as very few streetlights worked. They moved as a spread out but coordinated whole. The leader of one small group would peak from an alley, exchange a quick flash of hand signals with another, and together they'd move closer.

From inside the houses if anybody was awake at this hour they might have caught the passing glimpse of a shadow. But it was something so small and so fast that it might be mistaken for nothing at all, or even just a trick of the eye. Nobody spoke a single word aloud. The Major had drilled his troops well, after all, and they were as invested in the success of this raid as he was.

Then in little time they are at the fence-line and cautious scouts at the head of the pack check both ways. Out this far to the fence there are few if any lights, and security is maintained by no more than one or a pair of sentries walking patrols on overlapping paths. That meant they had to move fast as a single soldier drew wire cutters and set to work.

He was watched over by the others until he'd cut a hole _just_ big enough to slip through.

Then the portion of the fence he'd cut away was set aside completely in the sand on their side.

Then they slipped through the hole and onto the weather-worn tarmac. The actual runways weren't in use and hadn't been for centuries, so even if the engineers responsible for maintaining the facility had the time to spare for repairing the runway lights they wouldn't waste it. Instead they focused on the helipad and vehicle parking for the verti-birds that fly in and out.

That meant it was mostly total darkness between the fence-line and the main terminal where only handfuls of guards patrol the outside of the buildings. So, when the group kept spaced out and moving at a steady clip with the Major at the head of the group they weren't likely to be spotted.

And when they closed to within twenty meters of the terminal and heard no alarm klaxons or spotlights flicking on they knew they'd made it in the clear. At that point a few hand-signals from the Major and they moved on to the next part of their plan. With a plan covered well in advance they broke into twos and threes to split from one another.

Three soldiers went in the direction of the verti-birds and the maintenance bays.

A larger group peeled off for the secondary terminal before they split off into twos and threes.

When they came into the light they acted to blend in. They slung their rifles or at the very least relaxed their postures. The Major headed for the main terminal, specifically the double-door service entrance that was used, by air crews coming down from the briefing rooms to get to their craft for that day's flight operations.

It was propped open in preparation for the morning, and sat unguarded.

There was no sentry to challenge him as he stepped through and nobody around in the hall.

So, he took a breath, squared his shoulders, and started walking again not moments later.

The whole unit had gone over the plan beforehand. They'd come to learn the layout of the airbase almost as well as their childhood homes. They'd worked out in advance where the safest paths through the buildings were to avoid attention. And they knew _exactly_ where their target would be. So, the Major took a calming breath as he moved.

He ascended a flight of stairs to reach the second story and entered a main hallway.

Lights aren't kept low and there are few sentries or passing soldiers anywhere. This airbase was so far into what they considered friendly territory that the garrison didn't pay much mind to light discipline or the thoughts of intruders. Especially those who looked no different from their own.

When the Major turned through a few more intersections and climbed another flight of stairs, things changed. More soldiers began to appear. In twos and threes, and sometimes fours. Except they were his and recognized him as he passed with subtle nods or flicks of their eyes when he drew near. All it would take was the same in return and they'd move.

Conversations ceased. Halls were watched and rifles began to unsling.

In the myriad of halls that made up the airport terminals third floor, there was a singular door that held the interest of the Major and his men. He marched towards it at a steady clip with four of his soldiers around him in a near-lock step. The two women who had been assigned guard duty for the night gave the Major and his escort a funny look - until they were given the rather firm order from the Major to stand aside and put under the watch of two of his escorts.

Just inside the door was a small office with a single desk to the side of it. A tired-looking Sergeant manned the desk and was so busy staring into his coffee mug that by the time he realized he might want to reach for his service pistol, the muzzle of an assault rifle was already pointed squarely between his eyes. He sputtered something close to a curse but the Major and his remaining escort paid him no mind as they crossed the room.

The final door. And tacked on it was a sign declaring just what lay beyond.

HUB TASK FORCE VIGILANCE

COMMAND AND CONTROL CENTER

The remaining soldier who escorted the Major pushed open the door, leading with his shoulder, and cut immediately to one side while sweeping the room with his rifle. That alone drew a series of startled gasps and murmurs from the various men and women assembled. Somebody dropped a folder, another tried for their pistol and thought better of it when the rifle settled on them, and it seemed like a room that had, moments ago, been so alive had suddenly become very still.

The Major couldn't help but grin as he reached down and thumbed the catch on his holster.

He drew the weapon and leveled it at one of the figures he saw in his peripheral vision.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began. "please do not key the radio or call for the guards. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that, as of now, you are all prisoners of war to the forces of Caesar's Legion." And the whole while the Major still couldn't wipe the grin from his face.

And then.

The man next to him, with a pistol in his face, began to clap.


End file.
